Peace in your violence
by hiyashe
Summary: It was difficult. Should I speak up for once to resolve our problem or remain silent for ever because I know nothing would change anyway?


I was sitting in the living room, on my rightful place at the single sofa – far away from him. I didn't dare to move for fear of being noticed. So far, so good. It wasn't like he hated me – he was in my living room after all – but I was scared what he'll do if he gave me the attention I was carving for aeons of years. Alcohol was an indicator for a bad time, I've learnt. German beer was a far worse sign. The beer crate once filled with brown glass bottles was beside the low coffee table. Empty bottles of Oettinger were decorating the solid wooden table, some tilted bottles with spilled beer. Shouldn't I stop him before he got wasted? To begin with, I was too late – the whole bottles were emptied – and the other reason was I couldn't do it. It was his choice, his free will and I wasn't someone who would forbid such things – even if I despised the idea of drinking alcohol for having fun or for drowning all my sorrows. I also hadn't the energy to fight, _**I'd rather be a lover than a fighter**_. Because I'd fought more in my immortal life than I had ever loved or been loved.

Therefore, I was watching how his eyelids fluttered when the last drop in the bottle landed on his tongue. His breath was slightly ragged, a shiver ran down his spine and before I could realize the bottle was tossed the nearest wall, the one behind me. The bottle shattered in thousand pieces, leaving some beer stains behind. One of the bigger shards flew in my direction, leaving a rather deep cut under my left eye. It caused to flinch noticeable, but my facial expression was the same – apathetic. Hopefully he didn't see me moving. I've _**never felt a feeling of comfort**_ when he was looking at me with his piercing red eyes, clouded with booze. But luck was never at my side, so from the corner of my eye I could see that he was staring at me, his posture hostile.

"You.", he spat at me with venom. I shouldn't be so affected by his tone of voice, I should be used to it. It wasn't the first time and certainly not the last time he was attacking me with words. "You chickenshit." I didn't react, didn't wince. I knew what would happen if I did and I knew how the one-sided conversation would lead to. Every time the same topic, the same words and the same emotional dullness inside of me. At times like this I thought why I was wasting my time with him. I've loved him, he loved me too, but his woes were bigger and stronger than his love for me. Love meant togetherness, but _**love only left me alone**_. We even didn't sit together anymore; his discontentment and chagrin were too crushing.

The blood on my cheek was still flowing, dripping from my protuberance of chin onto my sandy brown trousers. The stains would leave a permanent if I didn't act fast, anyhow, I didn't move. "What for a lover would let his love lose everything?", he yelled while he dashed his fists on the table. The last standing bottles tilted eventually, some of them rolling towards hardwood floor. I was literally feeling his tremor. He was never violent against me consciously, but the fear was still there. A little voice inside my head told me that his self-control won't last. I needed help, _**I was need of a saviour, but I wasn't asking for favours**_. I didn't want the world finding out about his lashes – he had already lost so much; his dignity was the only thing left and I wanted to protect it as long as I could.

But maybe someone else would be better for him. Someone who actually spoke to him in his state and had a firm grip at him. I wasn't suitable for such a challenge, I wasn't useful for anything. Shy, meek Canada was overlooked by the world, how could he help someone with existential fear? It was almost ridiculous, I had really thought that I – of all things – had the willpower to endure this? Someone who was utilized and afterwards invaded couldn't have a voice in this world. Only the strongest won I was by no means strong. No, I couldn't think like that, these dark times were gone – or so I'd thought. _**I thought too much, and I hated it.**_ But with his glare I slipped easily to my dark voice which was just self-esteem and self-hatred speaking to me. Just another side of me but not less myself. "You had the chance, the ability, to save me. Did you do it? No! You're worse than the others, at least they participated active.", he was standing up, walking in front of me. Surely to use his height in advantage. But no, I'd kept my head low, looking how the bloodstains were harmonizing with the colour of my pants. "Look in my eyes when I'm speaking, brat!", he scoffed.

I didn't know why he was so demanding, it was my house after all, he was the freeloader! I remained motionless nevertheless. "You're silence because you know I'm telling the truth." Couldn't he stop his slurred speech? I would like to tell him to shut the fuck up and not to prevaricate. Like always, I remained quiet. _**I was so used to being in the wrong, I'm tired of caring**_. He would twist my word against me like the first times I'd tried to find a solution. Calling me useless, failure and – the worst of all – liar made me passive, my mind was shutting down in self-defence when his phase began. His drunken mind wouldn't notice that he made me uncomfortable with his state, that I would do anything to change the past. I might be immortal, but I wasn't a time traveller. He should know that his brother and I would be the first ones to alter his fate if we had the power.

"Can you for once speak?!" I felt his unbending rage under his skin, the cacoethes to smash my head multiple times against the white wall behind me. That was why I was closing my eyes ashamed. I was taken by surprise when his right thumb glided almost affectionately on my wound. That was a mistake. Now his eyes were glaring at me murderously. "Don't you notice that with your silence you destroy everything? Didn't you learn by your mistakes?!", he grabbed with the light bloody hand my hair and dragged my head upwards. A silent gasp left my mound, apparently a mistake too. "Even then? Don't you love me or what?" With a jerk he let my hair go, taking some steps back. "I'm leaving. Don't call me.", the albino said monotone and was going silently through the entrance. Typical. If he really loved me then he would be here, sitting in the living room and chatting with me. Love is supposedly where your heart belonged, where your heart was home. _**Loving never gave me a home, so I would sit here in the silence**_. That was my cue to sleep while I could, forgetting the nearly dried blood on my cheek.

My sleep deprived mind had the best timing in running at full blast – thinking scenarios getting worse and worse. I was used to this; he would snap back, and we would be happy again for a while. It was the sad truth, however, that was us. And it was far better than living alone. In a time where I didn't receive visitors due to my invisibility, my mind went amok. Too much thoughts, too much feelings and at the same time dullness. My body didn't handle it well. Back then standing up was for me a challenge, occupying my mind was difficult to archive. My heart was aching for something alien for me and after meeting Prussia this hole seemed to be filled by obnoxious laughter, adventures and doting affection. His presence was uplifting my spirit and the feeling was incredible. Then, after the climax came the downfall. I knew living with him wouldn't be easy, but I'd accepted it nevertheless. I saw now where it leaded me to.

Before I could realize that I'd managed to sleep, a hand was running down my cheek, soft and caring. I knew who it was – I would recognize his calloused hand at any time – and it left me petrified with horror. It was the touch I had always longed, the wish I had longed so badly but never voiced. I felt how the bloody crust crumbled slightly under the pressure of his thumb. The very same thumb which gave me the false sense of safety and comfort not too long ago. I couldn't stand it; my eyes began to burn with hot tears and it didn't take long to shed them – but my eyes remained closed. "I'm so sorry – please, open your eyes." He tried to brush the tears, but new ones replaced them. He held my head in his hands, forced me to look at him with his presence. I saw a person who tried his best not to fall apart in front of me. His eyes were back to normal – the rosy red iris I'd learnt to love. "Why did you let me take my frustration on you?" I wanted to tell him that I'd already tried several times – that leaded to the faded hematomas I'd tried to hide successfully. It wasn't his fault – it was mine. Lethargy made people passive and it wasn't like he hurt me intentionally – he couldn't help it.

His wounds were still fresh and wouldn't heal so easy like my gash. All these years he was fighting for his country just to be dissolved at the end. All these efforts for nothing and now hardly anyone remembered the Kingdom of Prussia. I was forgotten among us, he was forgotten by the world. I understood, and I'd learnt to live with it, that didn't mean that I had to like it. To change something, I had to speak up – but used to be quiet made it difficult for some reason. "Why do you let yourself be punished?" He was hurting by hurting me. His hands were now on my shoulders, gripping my shirt hard. His eyes were never on mine, they were lingering ruefully on my left cheek. I wanted to say that he shouldn't let it trouble him, but I just shook my head as reassurance. That caused furrowed brows on his face, then he was leaning with his forehead against mine, nose barely touching each other.

The trace of alcohol wasn't lingering on him anymore, he smelled more like the honey-lavender bar of soap in our bathroom. He changed his clothes too: a black t-shirt combined with some simple black sweatpants. They had a faint smell of laundry detergents, a big contrast to the room which reeked of beer. He tried to become better just for me – for us. "Please make a sound, even a squeak is enough. I fear that someday I'm going to forget your voice." He sounded so defeated, so desperate. Nothing like himself and I was the cause of his inner turmoil. "Didn't it hurt that I did that to you?" His eyes brimmed with sorrow and incomprehension.

It was okay, I became inured to these random outbursts and somehow it wasn't so bad now. My mind found quietude while his emotional outbursts. "You're so silent. When was the last time you spoke to me? Why don't you defend yourself from me?" But I didn't want to voice my thoughts, he would think I had gone crazy – hell, even I thought I was mad. Our situation could only change if I could bring myself to speak up for once. Silence gave me comfort, arguments could be easily avoided when words weren't used. But it meant also that everything was remaining in status quo. Quietness was a temporary solution to an inevitable problem.

" _ **I've found peace in your violence.**_ "

And _**I had been quiet for too long**_ _._

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the bold and cursive passages are parts of the song Silence by Marshmello feat. Khalid (just a bit rewritten because of tenses)


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